


The Flesh

by fishhuh, lentils_c



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Betaed, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dystopia, Eldritch Abomination, F/F, Family Issues, Horror, M/M, Monsters, Multi, Original Universe, Other, Paranoia, Paranormal, Violence, as usual, i beat the shit out of my ocs, i know this isnt fanfic but, tags will update as the story goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishhuh/pseuds/fishhuh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lentils_c/pseuds/lentils_c
Summary: The city itself wasn't silent. Idle chatter surrounded him as people passed by. Pierre sighed and looked around. There wasn't much in the way of businesses as far as he could see. The streets were lined with tiny houses, each one more painfully normal than the last. Like something out of some shitty rom-com. As he walked down the street, Pierre slowly began to realize the people around him seemed very happy. A little too happy. Nobody argued or even as much as scowled. Everyone around him was laughing and joking and smiling, their faces painted with an eerie joy.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 3





	The Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I just wanted to put a warning for a possible inaccurate description of schizophrenia. I've looked up Pierre's symptoms and most of them can really only be chalked up to schizophrenia. However, taking away these symptoms would take out a huge chunk of his character and background story. So I just wanted to let you know. 
> 
> I'm doing a bunch of research on it and reading other people's experiences with it in hopes to make it a little more realistic, however, since I don't experience it myself it will never be completely accurate. If you know anyone who has schizophrenia or you yourself have it and are willing to share your experiences with me to help me learn more about how to write a schizophrenic character well, please lmk in the comments, I would love to hear your input on it.
> 
> This story is being jointly written by me and my best friend, lentils_c. She will be writing the next chapter, in her Mc, Tara's POV. Each chapter will alternate POVs between the two Mcs.

It's too damn cold for the summertime.

Pierre could have had more productive thoughts like, "what time is it?" or, "your heart's still beating right?" but, of course, his mind always went back to the weather. It didn't matter if the rain hammered down on the roof above him, the noise rattling in his brain, or if the air had gotten warm enough for birds to come out and sing a song. A stupid, repetitive and annoying song, but still a song.

He adjusted his position in the back of the truck. He'd snuck onto it a few hours back in hopes of getting away from that damn place he was thrown away in. A musky city that reeked of piss and rot. It could hardly even be called a city. It was small enough that it took a considerable amount of time to find on a map, and most people didn't even know it existed. His Mémé had unceremoniously dumped him out of his house. He couldn't remember it entirely well. She would often throw fits and send him out of the house to "calm some sense into himself" so he wasn't very worried about the situation. He had walked about a block away from her home and then sat himself down on the curb of the sidewalk. He felt a slick, wet feeling in his hand as he leaned it against the concrete for support. Lifting his hand, Pierre saw the sickly yellow slime of what was most likely vomit spread on his hand. He groaned, disgusted but not surprised, and wiped his hand off on his pant leg.

When he had returned to what was now only his Mémé's home, there was a small, brown backpack sitting on the front porch. It was his old backpack from grade school. He was in college, why did Mémé still keep something like this around? He stepped over the backpack to walk up to the front door but stopped halfway as he glanced down. The backpack was full. Well, as full as a 12-year-old backpack could get. The poor thing looked like it would fall apart if more than a single book was placed in it. Upon further inspection, the backpack had been equipped with a few things; an emergency blanket, a water bottle, and Pierre's phone. He saw a significant lack of a charger for said phone, however.

Then he began to realize what this meant. Something dropped in Pierre's stomach. A part of him knew what was happening, and yet the rest of him desperately just wanted to get inside that house. He listened to the latter thought first. He approached the door all the way and attempted to twist the doorknob, a fleeting hope in the back of his head that the door would burst open. The door didn't budge. He banged on the door, panic rising in his throat. He knew what was happening.

"Let me in you old hag!" he tried to shout as loud as he could, but his voice stumbled and cracked as the sentence ended.

He hit the door again, weaker this time. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he couldn't let himself cry. Not here. Maybe Mémé was just testing him, seeing if he'd really leave her. Maybe this was some sick joke.

He hoped it was.

He eventually had to stop knocking on the door as his knuckles were turning a concerning reddish color. He took in a shuddering breath and let his head fall on the door, defeated.

"Mémé… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for whatever I did just please, please let me go home." Snot dripped from his nose onto the concrete below, but he still refused to let go of the tears that threatened to escape.

He was a mess. He didn't want to admit it, but no matter how much he hated his Mémé, he still found comfort in her occasional concerned glance his way when he was having a bad day. She always seemed to know, it was just up to how she felt that particular day if she wanted to act on the concern though. Most days she didn't. Most days she sat at the furthest end of the dining table watching him with a slight glower as he absent-mindedly scrolled through his phone, only stopping once and a while to take a bite of whatever he was eating. But some days, she would give him an extra egg with his breakfast. Or he would come home to find his bed made for him, each sheet carefully placed. Those days he felt a little more at peace with the old woman, no matter how distant she may be.

_You knew she didn't love you from the beginning,_

A voice spoke on the farthest corner of his mind. Soft and gentle. Mocking.

_You could have got up and left the bitch a long time ago, and none of this would have ever happened._

Pierre whined, a pitiful, small sound in the back of his throat. His meds had been working. The voices only came back a few times a week. Why now? He knew they acted up when he was stressed but it hadn't been this bad in a while. He desperately tried to focus on something else; the snot drooling down his chin, his boots, now dirty and scuffed from the walk.

His Mémé always gave him a disapproving look when he put them on. It probably had to do with the fact that they had heels. Short, thick heels, but heels nonetheless. She would always tell him that one day he'd twist an ankle. She had shut up once she saw how used to walking in them he was. He laughed slightly, but the memory faded quickly as he heard a shuffling in the house. Mémé was the only other person who lived there, so Pierre was certain it was her.

The shuffling turned to footsteps, and then suddenly someone was peeking through the curtain next to the front door. Mémé looked him straight in the eyes, her gaze unwavering. As fast as she had come, she was gone. He heard footsteps walk away, slowly. And then they were gone. The silence rang in his ears, and he desperately wanted to believe that hadn't happened. As if sensing his discomfort with the sudden silence, the voices took this as an opportunity to interject,

 _She knows what you did_.

At that, Pierre's heart felt like it had suddenly stopped. All the blood came rushing into his head and his breath began to come out in short, fitful gasps. The static in his ears grew ever louder, wrapping his mind in a menacing white noise. All his grief was forgotten in one plea; run. He managed to remember the old backpack next to him and hook his fingers around it, trying desperately to not drop it with how hard his hands were shaking. She knows. He knew she'd find out eventually. And in his fit of panic, Pierre did the only thing he had ever really done in his life.

He ran away.

°°°°°°°°°

The man driving the truck Pierre had jumped in seemed about as cliché normal as you could get. He wore a dark business suit and his hair was slicked back with way too much cheap hair gel. He didn't seem to move much. Simply stared at the road, driving, his head unmoving.

Pierre tried again to get comfortable in the truck but it was quite hard, as a truck's cargo bed isn't typically made for someone to sit in. With the amount he had been shuffling around and moving, Pierre could have sworn the man driving saw him. Or at least sensed his presence. But the man simply stared ahead, as if the only thing he _could_ see was the road.

Rummaging through his back pockets, Pierre eventually found his pack of cigarettes. The box had been mostly smashed due to him sitting on it, but other than that the cigarettes themselves were intact. His lighter was slightly harder to find in his mess of pockets, but he eventually found it and flicked it open.

He lit the cigarette and lifted it to his lips. The smoke he blew out blew away quickly with the speed of the truck. He didn't have any place, in particular, he wanted to go, he just wanted to get as far as he could from his Mémé. However, there was something about the man driving that unsettled Pierre. He couldn't quite place it.

In the end, Pierre had ended up dozing off. When he woke, the truck was parked in a city. It wasn't like the city Mémé lived in. It smelled strangely sweet despite the city itself being a mess. He looked behind him into the inside of the truck. The man was gone. Pierre hauled himself out of the truck, slinging his backpack onto his back.

The city itself wasn't silent. Idle chatter surrounded him as people passed by. Pierre sighed and looked around. There wasn't much in the way of businesses as far as he could see. The streets were lined with tiny houses, each one more painfully normal than the last. Like something out of some shitty rom-com. As he walked down the street, Pierre slowly began to realize the people around him seemed very happy. A little too happy. Nobody argued or even as much as scowled. Everyone around him was laughing and joking and smiling, their faces painted with an eerie joy. Pierre sped up his walk, hoping to find at least one normal person.

He sped by the houses and walked through dozens of laughing, chattering people. Their laughter began to grate against his ears.

Finally, Pierre came across a store. It was a small convenience store with a light-up sign on the window that read "cigarettes". The R had been torn off of the sign and lay on the sidewalk beneath it, smashed it bits. Wearily, Pierre approached the building. Maybe he could get a job here? Mémé hadn't exactly left him with all that much money. He approached the store, ignoring the queasy feeling he got when he saw the strange, pus-like substance clinging to the doorknob.

He opened the door and was met with rows of worn down shelves, holding candy and chips. Most of the small fridges holding drinks in the corner of the store were broken, the contents inside letting out a gentle, acrid smell. A woman sat at the register, packs of cigarettes lining the walls behind her. He approached the woman. She wore her hair long, the blond locks slightly covering her face. Her mouth was turned up in that eerie smile. But right as Pierre opened his mouth to talk, she locked eyes with him, and her smile fell. In its place came a look of… fear?

"Hello, I was wondering if--” Pierre began.

The woman shook her head frantically.

"Get out.”

Pierre laughed slightly, confused.

"Excuse me?"

Her breathing had become labored and she walked around the counter and began shoving Pierre out of the store.

"Get out!"

Pierre was thrown onto the sidewalk as the door slammed behind him. A quiet, static buzzing made itself comfortable in his head. What was up with her? He hadn't even as much as looked at her and she’d immediately panicked. Was everyone else here like that too? The dread that had settled in Pierre's gut the second he arrived here only grew larger. There was something wrong with this place. Part of him wasn't even sure he wanted to know what it was. 

Picking himself up, he continued down the street, a little more aware of the faces looking at him in the corner of his eye.

Their gazes were suffocating.

Pierre went to try his luck at another place. A restaurant with a hiring sign in the window. The last thing he wanted right now was to sleep out on the streets, and he especially didn't want to do it here.

The restaurant seemed like the sort of place your grandpa would take you to as a treat. It was spacious, and the tables had a rustic old look to them. The room was packed full, people eating greasy foods like burgers and grilled cheese, the type that was almost always slightly burnt, but you never complained because of how upset the waiter looked when they gave it to you.

There was a counter in the corner of the room with two people standing behind it. One was writing down something on a clipboard, while the other walked away occasionally to lead customers to their tables. Pierre supposed this was the best place to ask about a job.

Shuffling through the thin crowd of customers, Pierre approached the worker at the counter. They had short brown hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in days, but they were still happy despite that. The job must not pay them well.

"Hello, I'm here about the hiring sign? I'd like-"

The worker smiled a little too wide and quickly shushed him.

"What are you doing here?" Their voice wobbled.

Pierre rubbed his arm nervously

"I was wondering if I could apply for a job?" He asked, as calmy as possible. Something about the way the worker looked at him told him that if he got them any more riled up, it wouldn't end pretty.

The worker shushed him again, frustrated. "No. What are _you_ doing here? This town does not need any interference." They began to walk towards him. Pierre already knew this was a lost cause.

"Alright! I- I'm sorry I won't-" The people around Pierre turned to face him suddenly, their eyes glossy. Hands reached forward and started grabbing his denim jacket. He got the hint. He pushed against them, trying to get to the door but their grips were too strong. They each pulled at his clothes, some managing to reach bare skin, their fingernails digging him painfully.

The last thing Pierre remembers is a flash of silver hair, a girl yelling, and the painful thump of a pipe hitting his skull.

The next thing he remembers is wanting to punch someone in the face. Specifically, someone who was yapping right next to his ear in some strange attempt to wake him up. The voice was deep enough to be a man's, but annoying enough that it may as well just be a chihuahua.

Pierre groaned, using up all of the little energy he had left to look up at his perpetrator. It was a tall, lanky man. He couldn't have been older than 40, but definitely had some age on him. His hair covered his eyes, and he tried to brush it back, but it just fell back in front of his face again.

"Hey, kid! Kid! Are you okay? That was a pretty nasty hit you took there, that girl just hit you and left! I have no idea what her problem is."

Pierre grumbled something illegible into the concrete. The man gasped. "Oh good! You are awake. Gosh, she got you good. Didn't think you would wake up."

The man lifted Pierre and hauled him over his back, seemingly intending to bring him somewhere. However, this also meant his mouth was no longer smashed against the concrete, meaning he could talk again.

The man started to ramble again.

"Shut. The fuck. Up." Pierre hissed. The man snapped his mouth shut.

The building the man brought him to smelled faintly of fennel. Pierre had been lain down on a cheap mattress. He managed to shift himself up just enough to look at his surroundings.

The room looked like it hadn't been inhabited in years. The wallpaper was peeling and there was next to no furniture besides a small desk in the corner of the room. There was a pile of sacks in the other corner that appeared to be filled with flour. Before he could even open his mouth to ask what the fuck was going on, the strange man from earlier walked in.

"Hello again! Sorry to haul you here without much notice, but you weren't exactly very conscious, and if I had left you there you would have most definitely been torn apart!" he smiled warmly and knelt to hand Pierre a mug.

It was filled with what appeared to be tea, and yet it had somehow managed to curdle. Pierre didn't even want to know what caused that. The man continued.

"I run a Cafe here in this town. Not many people come here, but those who do always come back! I'm the only person here most of the time. They say I "know too much". No idea what that means, but hey! I still get some business."

The scent of the "tea" made Pierre feel like he was going to pass out again. Swallowing the rising bile in his throat, he looked up at the man.

"Who are you?" he meant to sound intimidating, but his tone came out as more of a strained whisper. Pierre hastily cleared his throat.

"Oh, I haven't even told you my name! How rude of me. Terribly sorry. I'm Clint. What's yours? You don't seem to be from around here." Clint grinned. Pierre wanted to knock that stupid smile off his face. He didn't really know why.

"Pierre." He grunted. The strange fumes from the tea hit Pierre again. He groaned and fell back down onto the mattress. Clint laughed.

"It's one of my herbals. Tends to have that effect in some people." He got up. "Well, I should let you sleep. You took a nasty fall back there. I'll explain as best as I can when you wake up, don't worry!"

Clint switched off the light, and let the door close behind him. Pierre couldn't focus on anything but the smell of that tea. The scent flooded his nostrils. It almost burned. Finally, he passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by my lovely friend Katt.


End file.
